


Better in French

by holmessoldier



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, Unilock, fluffly fluff, mentions of doing the do but no explicit stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-20
Updated: 2014-11-20
Packaged: 2018-02-26 10:04:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2647949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holmessoldier/pseuds/holmessoldier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time they meet is on a rainy October evening. Every raindrop seems to weigh a ton as it hits the window of the small coffee shop, the sound of them filling the mostly empty room. They are like bombs, small giving-ups sent from Mother Nature. John is tired. The door opens with the soft creak he has gotten used to over the last few months, revealing a tall man. His hair seems to live a life of its own, curling at the nape of his neck and over the forehead. John doesn’t take any notice of his eyes now, does not see the unique blend of green and blue that he will love, eventually. He just gets the man his coffee, black, two sugars, and receives £2,50 in return, which he accepts with a tired smile. Neither of them will remember this encounter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Better in French

**Author's Note:**

> So this was just a little something I wrote for a friend of mine's birthday. Not beta'd or any of the like, so all mistakes and awfulnesses are all mine!

 

The first time they meet is on a rainy October evening. Every raindrop seems to weigh a ton as it hits the window of the small coffee shop, the sound of them filling the mostly empty room. They are like bombs, small giving-ups sent from Mother Nature. John is tired. The bags under his eyes easily matches the colour of the thunder-heavy clouds outside. He supposes daily shifts at the shop, along with all the studying, eventually will do that to you. The door opens with the soft creak he has gotten used to over the last few months, revealing a tall man. His hair seems to live a life of its own, curling at the nape of his neck and over the forehead. John doesn’t take any notice of his eyes now, does not see the unique blend of green and blue that he will love, eventually. He just gets the man his coffee, black, two sugars, and receives £2,50 in return, which he accepts with a tired smile. Neither of them will remember this encounter.

 

\---

 

The second time they meet is in December. The Christmas decorations seem to fill every corner of London, bright lights and Santas in plentitude. Desperately trying to find something acceptable for his parents, Sherlock finds himself in the middle of John Lewis, needing to find something, anything that would suffice as a gift. The salesman is boring and predictable, showing him blouses and nice plates, but nothing is good enough. Excusing himself, quite rudely, the tall man turns, body colliding with a shorter one. John takes a step back, blinking up at him. This time he sees the eyes, and swallows thickly. Sherlock freezes, brows knitted together as he eyes the other. “Try a scarf, she will like it” he murmurs before disappearing off. John stares after him, wondering how the hell he could possibly have known.

 

\---

 

The third time they meet is at a seminar on human anatomy. Four months have passed, and the April sun is almost enough for John to get his hops back that sometime the world will actually return to its gloriously warm peek. Sherlock is in the seat next to him, and John has to think for a moment before realising why he seems so familiar. He doesn’t say anything, just watches him from the corner of his eye, imagining what those impossibly sharp cheekbones would feel like against his palms. The lecture ends, and John clears his throat.

“Hi, sorry, I was just wondering… Would you perhaps want to… I don’t know, have coffee sometime?” Sherlock is shocked, looking at the blond as if he’s just explained the meaning of life. He doesn’t yet remember. John leaves with the brunet’s number in his phone under the name of Sherlock Holmes.

 

\---

 

[May 24th, 7:24 PM]

I had a great time today. JW

 

[May 24th, 7:29 PM]

You were far more entertaining than I thought. SH

[May 24th, 7:32 PM]

I’m going to take that as a compliment. JW 

 

\---

 

The seventh time they meet is in Sherlock’s flat. It is June, and John is sure now, absolutely sure, that he is falling head over heels. But he doesn’t know how not to when Sherlock seems to know everything about him, and sends him clips of himself playing the violin, and wakes him up in the middle of the night to listen to rambles about stages of decay and triple homicides. He doesn’t know how not to when Sherlock makes him smile without even being in the room, when he seems to fill his thoughts every waking hour. So he allows it to happen, allows it to consume him. They have take-away and watch crap telly, and as he leaves, John brushes his hand over Sherlock’s. The genius is left with a racing heart and warm cheeks, because he’s been wanting to do that for two months now.

 

\---

 

[Draft]

[July 3rd, 03:07]

I want to feel your heartbeat against my cheek in the morning, knowing that you’re mine. JW

 

[Not sent]

 

[Deleted]

 

\---

 

The twenty seventh time they meet, Sherlock knows. He knows that there will never be someone like John Watson. The sun seems to live inside him, shining light on everything that is beautiful in the world. Sherlock knows that he can’t let him go now. Not when simple brushes of hands lead to fingers linked together shyly as they walk home. They do not speak of it, just let it exist, in their own happy bubble. September is cold and rainy, but that doesn’t matter when he gets to feel John’s breath against his neck as they hug each other goodbye.

 

\---

 

“Did you know we met before that seminar?” It’s the thirty eighth time now, and John is running his fingers through ebony dark curls. Neither of them remembers a dark and rainy October night and the hot coffee a year ago. “At least I think we did” he says with a smile as he looks down at Sherlock’s face, rested securely in his lap. “Last Christmas. It must have been you.”

Sherlock leaves the flat reluctantly that night, stealing one last fleeting kiss from the blond. His John.

 

\---

 

It is during the forty ninth time that John takes the final step. The kisses to Sherlock’s lips are slowly replaced by presses of lips to pale skin, jaw, neck, clavicle. He wants to consume the genius, to never let him go. The sex is slow and gentle, messy at times. It doesn’t matter. They laugh, breath the same air, nothing exists except for the two of them, limbs tangled. Sherlock thinks that this is what making love must be like. He doesn’t leave until noon the next day, when John has had enough time to feel his heartbeat against his cheek. Except there will never be enough time, not when someone’s heartbeat is a bird trapped inside the confines of a ribcage.

 

\---

 

[December 25th]

Merry Christmas. I’ll see you tonight. SH

 

\---

 

It takes fifty three meetings. I love you sounds better in French, but John can’t recall those words as Sherlock’s arms wrap around him, gentle lips between his shoulder blades. English will have to be enough as he turns, kissing him softly, body sore from their activities. “I love you, Sherlock Holmes” he whispers, fingers playing across Sherlock’s side. It takes a minute, or perhaps two, but when they come, the words seem simple.

“I love you too”

 


End file.
